Page 74 of Someone Knows

Boxes? Maybe there are boxes somewhere. Mom was a bit of a hoarder, and she often left the liquor store with so many bottles they’d have to give her something sturdy to carry them all. I look around her bedroom once more. I’ve barely made a dent. It hits me that my mother knew she was dying and took the time to plan her own wake and funeral for me, yet didn’t bother to sort out her life. Somehow, it seems fitting for our relationship.

I check everywhere for more trash bags or boxes—the kitchen, the laundry room, the closets, even the shed outside. The only ones I find are already filled to the brim.More I need to go through.Eventually, I collapse on the bottom step of the staircase, gazing up at the ceiling and wishing I were anywhere but here. My mind circles back to where it has spent most of the last twelve hours.Noah.That damn Saint Agnes glistening on his neck, staring up at me.

He had to know, right? Had to know about the necklace Jocelyn—I—was given. Was it possible Mr. Sawyer gave them to everyone? Perhaps . . . But why would he givehissonSaint Agnes, the patron saint ofvirginsandvictims of sex abuse? It didn’t make sense. It did make sense, in a sick way, why he’d given it to me. But not to his son. And why did Noah suddenly start wearing it? A month has passed since we met, and he’s never worn it before. My stomach churns, thinking about it, thinking how vulnerable I’ve made myself to Noah.

And he said he was working on a novel—anovel.

Could he be Hannah Greer?

I bite my lip hard, like I bit his just last night, dig my teeth into the meaty flesh until I taste blood and the shock of pain jolts me from my thoughts. It’s too much to be a coincidence. Way too much.

Besides, it doesn’t make sense that Hannah is anyone else. Now that I think about it, hasn’t it beenobviousall along? Sam has helped me—found information on Jocelyn, been there for me in a way that quite frankly I didn’t deserve. And last night he wouldn’t have left so easily if he had something. Or if hewantedsomething. What he wants, more than anything, is me. At least until yesterday.

I force myself to my feet and wander into the kitchen. I grab the coffee carafe, dump out the cold, burnt coffee, and begin the process of making more.Who else?Father Preston. But he hasn’t been sniffing around, either. Now that Mom’s dead, he’s rinsed his hands of me. Probably, he’s glad for that. I sure am.

In the cupboard, I shuffle around for the coffee, for the oversized plastic Maxwell House container Mom bought at Walmart. When it’s not there, I crouch down to search the lower cupboards, pushing aside expired cans of soup and boxes of mac and cheese. This will all need to be sorted, too.

But who else? Who else?The chief has been oddly absent in all of this after his constant appearances, but I’ll take that as a positive sign. And why wouldthe policenot arrest me if they knew the story? Enrolling in my class, sending haunting chapters—no, it’s personal to whoever isdoing this.

That leaves Ivy. Ivy who, as it turns out, was more involved than just helping me cover up my crime. I still can’t get over that she slept with Mr. Sawyer, too. Maybe she only told mepartof the story and the real truth is that she was in love with him. And now she wantsrevengeon me for what I did. It’s possible, isn’t it? Lord knows anything is in this crazy mess. Then again, she has so much to lose. She was there that night, too, and she has more at stake than I do, what with her family. So as much as finding out she’s kept secrets from me for twenty years leaves me unsettled, it doesn’t change that I’m almost certain it’s not Ivy doing this to me.

With a sigh of frustration, I abandon my attempt to make coffee. I need more bags or boxes anyway, so I’ll just pick up my caffeine fix while I’m out. Plus, I could use some fresh air. So I find my purse, my keys, take a long look through the window—no red pickup truck—and hurry out to my car.

The hardware store is nearly empty. It’s a local one, run by a couple who lives at the edge of town—or maybe their kids own it these days. I take a cart and wander through the aisles, finding coffee and trash bags, a pallet of moving boxes stocked eye-high in the back. I load up an armful and head down the cleaning aisle. I haven’t inventoried what’s at the house, but Mom probably doesn’t have anything besides Comet and Windex, and the place is going to need a good scrub.

I’m halfway down an aisle when my phone buzzes. I lift it and see Lucas’s name on the screen, a short text below it.

Lucas:Lunch? Would today work?

I hesitate. I like Lucas, apparently always have. And I told him we’d get together after Mom’s funeral. I also can’t remember the last time I ate. But there’s no point in having lunch with him. My goal is to clean out Mom’s house, wrap up whatever loose ends need to be dealt with here, and getthe hell back to New York—far away from whoever is messing with me. Or rather, far away from Noah.

I shake my head. I’ll just grab a sandwich and eat while I work—anything to get done and get out of this town. But before I can slide my phone back into my jeans pocket, it buzzes again.

I look at the screen and go still.

Lucas:Wait, don’t put the phone away! I’m more fun than that mop—promise!

The mop in question sits upside down in a caddy just in front of me. I was debating the merits of two different styles and had mostly settled on the cheaper, foam-padded one. I lower my phone and twist around, finding none other than Lucas grinning at me from the end of the aisle.

I don’t expect the response that floods me—warmth, happiness to see him. But a second later, suspicion follows. It is a small town, but . . .

Then I spot his cart. It’s nearly overflowing with household goods, things that make sense to purchase—paper towels, grass seeds, flower starters from the garden area.

“I thought that was you.” He comes down the aisle and parks his cart to one side, approaching me with arms wide, offering a hug.

I suppose it’s normal after someone’s parent dies to embrace them. Lucas wraps me in his arms, holding me against his chest, and I can’t help notice he smells good. Woodsy, with a hint of leather and . . . something else. I think it might be sawdust? Though I suppose we are in a hardware store.

“So, what do you say?” he pulls back and asks. “Lunch?”

Half of me wants to say no. The other half is happy to see him.

“Come on.” He squeezes my shoulder andmotions to my cart. “You’re going to kill my ego if usingthatis more enticing than my invitation.”

I smile. Screw it. It might be nice to spend time with someone who knew me before, when I was stillme. Plus, when was the last time I had a conversation with someone who wasn’t on my suspect list? “Sure.”

There are only two places in town to sit down and eat. Luckily, Lucas chooses the diner over the bar. Inside, we sit in a booth in a corner. Without realizing it, I put my back to the wall, keeping my gaze on the front door, like Noah’s going to walk in here. It occurs to me that maybe I should get a different rental car, so I’m not as easily spotted. Of course, that wouldn’t solve the problem. He knows where I’m staying. And he doesn’t seem to want to hurt me, just . . . screw with me.

Lucas is talking about work, about how he never thought he’d work in medicine, but how he finds it very satisfying. “It doesn’t always end well, of course . . .” He gives me a humorless smile, clearly meaning my mother. “But I do help a lot of people. And I like that. Even when we can’t save them, at least I can bring them comfort. Your mom had plenty of visitors, but not everyone does.”

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